


The Loss of Control

by biswholocked



Series: JWP 2015 [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Community: watsons_woes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Slash, Sleep Deprivation, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I can't <i>function</i>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day sixteen of JWP. I strayed very, very far from the prompt, which was the word "Ablaze" with a picture of a room on fire. I considered re-writing this until it fit the prompt better, but decided not to (obviously).
> 
> Takes place vaguely during HLV, after Sherlock gets home from hospital. I did, however, write this with eventual slash in mind, so take that as you will.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In hospital, HLV. Mycroft makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on expanding this ficlet I wrote for July Writing Prompts since late August. It's not finished yet, but as I am finding myself in need of some motivation to make some significant progress on this before I need to split my time with Holmestice, I decided to post some of what I have written.

“He’s progressing well,” the doctor says. “The infection is nearly out of his body, and the pneumonia is also gone. His scar tissue appears to be healthy.”

“When do you expect he will be released?” Mycroft asks.

“The start of November, if he continues to heal well. He’ll need at least a month of outpatient care after that. I can give you a list of home nurses, they’re all very-”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Mycroft turns calmly to look at John, while the doctor recenters herself.

“Doctor Watson,” she says gently, “it’s not feasible for you to care for him on your own. He’ll need a level of assistance that’s-”

“I can do it,” John says firmly, stepping further into the hall. His jaw is clenched in one of his most obvious tells. Mindful of the setting - and his meeting with Harry at noon - Mycroft steps between them, smiling thinly.

“I appreciate your advice, doctor. You can give the list to my assistant; it will be thoroughly looked over, I assure you.” Mycroft turns from her in dismissal and faces John.

“John, if you would step this way.”

John’s fingers twitch by his sides, but he follows the tilt of Mycroft’s head a few steps down the hall. Forcing eye contact, Mycroft begins before John can take a breath.

“Consider this carefully, John. You have a wife who’s expecting, a job that needs your time. I will not allow Sherlock’s care to be less than competent due to your emotions.”

Mycroft watches impassively as John bites the inside of his cheek in anger.

“Now let me tell _you_ something, Mycroft,” he says tightly. “Sherlock is my first priority, right now. My only priority. Besides that, you know how he is; he’ll need someone he can trust with him, someone who knows him, not some temp nurse.”

Mycroft considers John’s words. “You will have help for at least the first week, to ensure his comfort. if I ever feel you have slacked in your duties, I will not hesitate to pull you out and replace you with someone who is more capable. Do I make myself clear?”

John has grown stiff and his eyes are bright with outrage, but eventually he nods in agreement.

“So glad we understand each other,” Mycroft says smoothly, pulling out his pocketwatch by its chain to check the time. “I’m afraid I must take my leave-- very important prior engagement. Do tell Sherlock I said hello.” Without waiting, Mycroft leaves, umbrella dangling by his side.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks later, Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone reading this who read the original fic from JWP in the past, there is quite a lot of backstory before we get to the original story content. Just so you know :)

A car passes outside. Small, early 2000s model, one headlight out. The sound of its tyres against the road indicates there’s still standing water from the rain earlier that day. Sherlock listens to it stop abruptly at the corner before turning. Poor motor control-- likely an intoxicated driver.

The clock reads 2:30 AM in bright, red numbers; Sherlock has watched them change over, minute by minute, for the past three hours. His eyes are scratchy and everything aches with exhaustion, but sleep has been elusive. His chest is throbbing dully; his pain medication is wearing off. The sheets cling to his skin. He rolls over, stares at the darkened outline of the bathroom door instead. Rain drips from the roof onto the fire escape _plink plink plink_. Above him, there’s the sound of John stirring, mattress groaning softly through John’s room and into Sherlock’s. First the few, small creaks of John simply turning in his sleep, then the sound of John sitting up, the soft thud of his footsteps.

He’s had a nightmare, then. Unsurprising. Between his shifts at the clinic and taking care of Sherlock in the two weeks he’s been out of hospital, John has been sleep-deprived and stressed. Earlier that evening, Sherlock had noted a minute tremor in John’s hands.

John’s coming down the stairs, now. Abruptly, Sherlock throws back his covers and slips out of bed. He drapes on a dressing gown, then hurries out to the kitchen. By the time John makes it down - slight limp, nightmare about Afghanistan, then - Sherlock has turned on a lamp and put the kettle to boil.

“Chamomile or peppermint? Sherlock asks when john’s shuffled steps reach the kitchen doorway.

“Chamomile,” John answers. His voice is hoarse, common for him after a nightmare, Sherlock has found, even though John rarely cries out. Silently, Sherlock puts the tea bags into their cups. A few moments later the kettle clicks off and Sherlock pours the water, watching steam swirl up from the surface as the tea brews. When it’s finished, one cup gets handed to John, and they move to the sitting room. John settles into his armchair with a soft sigh; he sits like everything is sore, and judging by the curve of his shoulders, his old injury has flared up.

Sherlock presses his cup to his lips, inhales deeply before taking a sip, while John absentmindedly does the same. The tea is hot, just this side of burning, but the flavour settles well over Sherlock’s tongue. His eyes droop.

Time drips by. The flat is quiet, excepting the sound of their breathing and the occasional moan of the building. Sherlock watches John, and sees the tension leave his body as his tea disappears. A sort of haze falls over Sherlock’s thoughts. Finally, John stands, leaves to put his cup in the sink, then back out. He hesitates by the door.

“Well. I’m off then. I’ve got a shift, later.”

Sherlock hums down at the last bit of tea in his cup. “No, you don’t,” he replies. “Sarah texted you earlier, said you aren’t to enter the clinic for at least two days, no exceptions.”

“I didn’t see that.”

“You were busy.”

John sighs. “Right, then. Still going to sleep.” He pauses, long enough that Sherlock can feel his gaze. “You should too.”

Sherlock makes a noncommittal sound. John sighs again, then starts up the stairs. His steps are heavy, but even.

* * *

 

John comes down near nine. Sherlock is still on the couch, holding the same cup. He doesn’t look up when John passes by, but listens carefully to the sound of John rummaging round in the kitchen. Small pan from the cabinet by the sink, some kind of spice from the leftmost cabinet, a styrofoam package and milk from the refrigerator. Eggs, and likely toast as well. It’s one of the few things John makes for breakfast, mostly because he can usually convince Sherlock to eat a bit. In hospital, the food was dreadful; even Mycroft’s string-pulling couldn’t change the bland soups and lumpy potatoes into something resembling a good meal.

A plate is thrust into his hands, and the teacup taken away. Sherlock blinks.

“Eat,” John commands. Sherlock slowly picks up his fork and stabs a bite of eggs. They’re yellow and fluffy, but the good taste is spoiled when they hit his stomach. Nausea crawls up his throat.

Swallowing, Sherlock takes another bite, then closes his eyes against a dry heave.

“John,” he chokes out in alarm, then leans over the side of the couch and vomits. It hurts; as his chest heaves his ribs and gunshot wound burn bright with pain. Sherlock groans, tries to breathe.

Hands on his shoulders. John, rubbing his back, taking the plate away and half-carrying Sherlock to the loo. Sherlock slumps against the tub.

“You okay, now?” John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Nauseated. Hurts.” The taste of bile clings to the inside of his mouth and nose, cloying.

John runs his hand across Sherlock’s shoulder blade in a comforting motion. “Have you eaten anything lately?”

“Only biscuits. Can’t remember when.”

John thinks for a moment. “It might be a side effect of your pain medication, or it could just be your stomach acting up. We’ll try again with something smaller tonight, and if it doesn’t work, we’ll call your doctor in the morning. Okay?”

Sherlock can barely focus on John’s words, but nods along. John’s his doctor; John will take care of him.

John says something about brushing his teeth, so Sherlock stumbles over to the sink and fills his mouth with the taste of peppermint and water. John supports him, then slings one of Sherlock’s arms over his shoulders and helps Sherlock to bed. He falls asleep to the sound of John murmuring and soft fingers through his hair.

Everything is black. Then, a door, wooden and old, reinforced with metal bands. It is locked when Sherlock pulls on it, but there is a large keyhole; Sherlock kneels and presses his eye to it.

Two shadows on the other side. One is on his knees, the other standing tall with a whip. Sherlock watches as the tall one raises his arm, lets the whip crack through the air. He and the bent figure scream, beg please, please, no more in harsh, unfamiliar words as the man hits them - him - over and over and over, splitting his skin, flaying it, spreading his blood.

“You can’t stop it,” a soft, lilting voice says close to Sherlock’s ear. He turns, lunges toward the sound, but a chain has appeared around his neck, his limbs bound by thick white fabric and leather belts. Moriarty laughs, and the sound makes Sherlock’s teeth clench.

“What’s the matter, dear? Cat caught your tongue?”

Sherlock can’t speak. Frustration fills his chest as he tries to force out something, anything, but there is only the impact of his teeth coming together, the sharp tang of blood running down his lips and chin.

“Oh, Sherlock. Look how far you’ve fallen. You’re broken, now, and not even your little pet can fix you.”

From the shadows, Mary comes out, gun steady in her hand. Her face is stone; her eyes hold regret.

“How does it feel to be _obsolete_?” Moriarty taunts, and Mary pulls the trigger.

Sherlock wakes, gasping for breath. Sweat has turned his hair damp; he can hear his heartbeat in his ears, feel it in his fingers. The clock reads just after noon.

Sherlock pulls off the sheet and slowly sits up, grunting in discomfort; his head pounds, but his stomach is mercifully quiet. He leans on the bedside table to stand on his shaky legs, then follows the wall to the door and out to the hall.

John looks up from his book when Sherlock stops just inside the sitting room. A slight smile pulls up his mouth, but the edges of it are pinched with worry. Sherlock resolutely abandons the wall and makes it to the couch on his own, keeps the exhaustion of such a simple task from his face. The strong smell of pine-scented cleaner surrounds the space where John has cleaned his mess. His laptop is on the coffee table; he picks it up and opens it.

“Tea,” he says, trying to call up his usual imperious tone. He thinks he falls short; it only takes John half a minute to abandon his book and head for the kitchen. Sherlock checks his email, finds nothing of interest. Molly has sent an e-card with cats saying, “get well soon”; a man has asked for his help when it’s glaringly obvious the aging father’s nurse holds the answer. The news sites are similarly useless. It appears that all the criminals have gone to roost for the time being.

A mug fills his vision. “Earl Grey,” John says, and Sherlock takes it, brings it to his lips. It’s milky and a bit sweeter than he usually takes it, but the warmth against his raw throat and the lack of protest from his stomach make it perfect.

* * *

 

The rest of the afternoon passes quietly. John turns on the telly to some dreadful film, and Sherlock pretends to ignore it as he glances over an article on the process of determining the angle of a projectile from break patterns; his body feels strung out, but on the whole he is comfortable.

When the streetlamps come on, John closes the blinds and flicks on a dim light.

“I’m going to heat up that leftover Thai. Do you think you can eat some toast?”

“Mm, yes, fine,” Sherlock says. John goes to rummage around in the kitchen, comes out to hand Sherlock a plate with dry wheat toast. John watches him eat. The toast is crunchy and plain, simple enough for his stomach to accept; Sherlock manages to finish both pieces.

John looks pleased as he scarfs down the leftover takeaway. “That’s a good sign.”

“Hmm. You’re planning on going back to work tomorrow.”

“Umm. Yeah, I talked to Sarah, she agreed. I just need to-- do something useful, I suppose.” John shifts in his chair. “Have you taken a dose of your medication today?”

Sherlock allows the change in topic and shakes his head, then watches John leave for the loo and come back with Sherlock’s pills and a glass of water. “Can you swallow them whole, or should I put them in some tea?”

Sherlock takes the pills and the water and swallows them down without speaking.

“All right, well. Keeping the toast down is a good sign,” John says. “I think your stomach just forgot what food is. But really, Sherlock, you can’t skip meals like that. You’re going to need the strength to heal.”  
Sherlock nods.

John’s mouth twists, but Sherlock can’t figure out why before it passes.

“And how about your pain levels? I know everything is still a bit tender, but--”

“My ribs ache, likely due to the fact the breaks are still mending. My lungs are clear, though; the infection hasn’t come back.”

“And the bullet wound?”

Sherlock purses his lips. “Painful,” he admits. “Sensitive, but no swelling and no redness.”

“You’ve been using the ointment?”

“Yes.”

“May I look?”

Sherlock nods curtly, and John’s fingers slip under his t-shirt, pulling the fabric up past his navel to just under his nipple, where Sherlock’s skin is still shiny and pink with scarring and surrounded by pale lines where scalpels split his skin. John runs his warm fingers over the wound, pressing lightly, then moves onto Sherlock’s ribs, gently feeling around the bones. Sherlock regulates his breathing and tries to ignore the rising pulse of his heart.

“Have you been sleeping how the doctor said?”

Copper blood, sheets stuck to his skin. “I don’t know.”

John sighs. “You can’t delete your medical information, Sherlock. If you aggravate your injuries when you’re sleeping, you may not realise until it’s too...until much later. Do you understand? I wouldn’t…”

Sherlock lets the words crowd the space between them. John looks up from where he’s kneeling, and Sherlock loses track of when he should inhale; John’s eyes are dark and soft, tired around the edges.

“You should get some more sleep,” John says lowly. “Your body needs the rest.” He stands and lets Sherlock’s shirt fall from his fingers. “Help you to your room?”

Something clenches tight in Sherlock’s chest. “No,” he replies, pulling his dressing gown tight around him. “I have an experiment.”

John argues, briefly, but Sherlock tunes him out until he hears the creak of the stairs under John’s feet; the sitting room gets just a little colder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/ con crit always welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to warn for this in the last chapter, which I apologize for, but there is violence (in the context of a nightmare) in this chapter.

Sherlock passes the night in the kitchen, inspecting samples under his microscope. It’s more busy work than anything else - confirming the results of earlier experiments - but it keeps him awake. Some time past four in the morning his hands start shaking too much to adjust the microscope controls. He brews a cup of coffee and takes it to the couch, half-heartedly reads a book until John shuffles downstairs and into the loo for a shower.

It’s surprising, how quickly John has filled Baker street again. Mary is never talked about, though Sherlock knows she’s been reaching out; in the vacuum of injury and recovery, there are moments where Sherlock can pretend nothing has changed from Before.

John comes out in his terrycloth robe and makes a quick breakfast, hands a plate with toast and some fruit to Sherlock along with his medication. John eats quickly, dresses (in a shirt that fits him again), and within the half hour he’s hurrying down the stairs to work.

The flat is quiet, when he’s gone; Sherlock eats and leaves his plate on the coffee table. The sound of the traffic outside slowly encroaches into his ears and the couch cushions grow softer underneath him. His vision’s gone double and fuzzy; sleep pulls at the edges of his resistance, and finally, Sherlock closes his eyes.

A cloth is draped over his face, blocking out the glare of a bare lightbulb. It smells of mildew, Sherlock observes dully. Then, water, dripping through the fabric, and one last easy breath before he chokes on the liquid up his nose and in his lungs. Seconds stop making sense as he drowns; he struggles against his bonds, but they stay firmly in place. His heart slams out its beats. He coughs, then inhales more water. There are brief moments of reprieve when he sucks in a lungful of air before it begins again.

The cloth is finally pulled away, leaving Sherlock blinking up with watery eyes at a bright white smile.

“There, there,” Moriarty consoles. “You’ve got a bit longer yet.” A knife cuts through the ropes and Sherlock slumps in the chair, shaking. Moriarty’s mouth is moving, but it’s swallowed up by the ringing in Sherlock’s ears. He gags.

“None of that, now,” Moriarty scolds, kneeling by Sherlock’s side. Sherlock turns his head and meets Moriarty’s eyes. They are cold, and filled with smug certainty.

It is a weak attempt, fueled by desperation. Sherlock’s nails, untrimmed and ragged, find Moriarty’s cheek, dig into the soft flesh; together they tumble to the floor and Sherlock scrambles for the knife. He finds it, grasps the smooth handle, and plunges it into the vulnerable spot just below Moriarty’s ribcage. Blood wells up from the wound, slicking the handle of the knife and flowing over Sherlock’s fingers.

Moriarty laughs and shoves Sherlock off of him; beefy hands grip him from behind, and hold Sherlock in place, forcing him to watch as Moriarty stands. Blood runs down his suit, staining the fabric, but his stance is steady.

“You can’t kill me, Sherlock,” Moriarty says. “Surely you’ve realised that by now?”

Sherlock pulls against the harsh grip that holds him, and gets a hand squeezing around his throat for the trouble.

“No,” he gasps desperately. “No, no, you’re not…”

Moriarty steps closer. “Real?” he asks, and slowly pulls the knife from his stomach. “Alive?” Blood drips from his mouth.

Sherlock feels dizzy and hyper aware of the fingers pressing down on his arteries. Red and black splotches dance across his vision. Moriarty bends down, close; Sherlock feels the brush of lips against his cheek.

“The beautiful thing is, I don’t have to be alive,” Moriarty says gleefully. “Because I’m in _you_ , Sherlock, and everyone knows it.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/ con crit always welcome!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, the same day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's left kudos/read this over the past week, and for being so patient for this chapter. I'm working out some kinks in the middle part of the story, but I think I've finally gotten past my initial block.

A soft knock on John’s door pulls him from his paperwork.

“Come in.”

Sarah peeks around the doorframe. “I was wondering if you want to grab some lunch?”

John looks at the clock in surprise at the time. “Yeah,” he agrees, and together they walk down to a nearby cafe. The years have been kind to Sarah; she’s more confident than ever, and the clinic has blossomed into a true practice. Sitting across from her, John can’t help but compare, and find himself falling short.

“So how’s Sherlock?” she asks.

John pokes at his salad, takes a bite. “Doing...well, not _good_ , but healing. We had a scare with his stomach yesterday but it looks like he’s all right.”

“Has the Yard made any progress in his case? Any idea of who did it?”

Mary’s face, carefully blank, flashes through John’s mind. His jaw clenches. “No,” he says shortly. He turns his attention back to his food and takes a few bites, chewing and swallowing without tasting.

“Mary’s looking well,” Sarah says quietly.

“Oh?”

“She’s healthy, anyway; emotionally…” Sarah looks at him. “She’s working with Doctor Carson, now.”

“Good doctor.”

“John--”

“Sarah, please.”

Sarah sighs. “We’ve known each other a long time, John. You love Mary, you can’t tell me that’s not true. So what’s wrong? I’m sure if you just talked to her--”

“Right now, that’s not an option,” John says sharply. “If the baby is healthy, good, but otherwise...I can’t.”

Sarah looks away with a frown and John swallows past the pressure in his throat.

“Can you take my last patient?”

Sarah nods. “Of course,” she answers, and John leaves, throwing out a lunch he barely touched. Outside, he walks; he can’t go home, not yet. Sherlock would know right away something was wrong. And that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? Not three weeks of living there again and Baker Street has replaced his and Mary’s flat as home.

It all went to hell so quickly. Mary is an ache behind his ribs, but it’s Sherlock who’s really in pain; the man who pledged to protect them both, and their child, and all John can offer in return is a traitorous wife and help into bed.

He stops in at a coffeeshop and sits in one of the armchairs with a cup of tea, looking through his phone. Mary sends him updates on the baby occasionally. _Felt the baby move today_ , she’d sent last week, and as John rereads it all he can think is who should he have been with, his wife as she laid a hand on her stomach or Sherlock as he struggled to stand.

He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face, and checks the time on his mobile. Just after one; there’s two hours left until his shift was supposed to end, but as John looks at the dregs left in his cup he loses any desire to try and hide what happened from Sherlock (and knows he was fooling himself if he thought he could). With weary bones he stands, throws his cup away, and leaves. The closest tube station is just a few streets away; it’s a short walk. The station’s quiet, and the soft rocking of the train carriage is enough to keep John’s mind blank until the calm automated voice announces the Baker Street stop.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock is ensconced on the sofa when John arrives home, in hardly a different position than that morning. He doesn’t look up when John hangs up his coat; worry makes John frown, but instead of repeating the conversation they’ve had time and time again John trudges up to his room and changes clothes before settling into his chair with a book. There’s silence between them, occasionally punctured by Sherlock’s fingers on his keyboard, but John finds it calming, a solid patch of ground to stand on in the midst of an unsettling day. His book is absorbing, enough to pull him away from the present and far into its pages, racing alongside the main character as they try to find themselves.

“You have nightmares.”

John looks up blinking. Someone has turned on a lamp to beat back the dark; Sherlock is still buried in his laptop.

“Yes,” he replies hesitantly.

“About the war.”

John sighs and closes his book, slipping a bookmark between the pages. He thinks back to the night before last, when Sherlock made him tea in the middle of the night, wonders why Sherlock has chosen now (of all times) to bring this up.

“It depends,” he says, after a moment.

Sherlock’s mouth thins and and his eyes squint in frustration. It’s an expression John’s seen before, particularly when Sherlock is having trouble with something more personal; John takes a moment to breathe, then plunges in.

“Sometimes it’s the war, yes. Other times it’s you--” Stops. Clears his throat. “You, falling. Or me being trapped in the bonfire.” John pauses and watches Sherlock still avoid his stare. The silence has turned heavy between them.

“How do you stop them?” There, a brief glance in John’s direction. Reluctant vulnerability.

“They aren’t...you can’t control nightmares, Sherlock. Even if you know what exact set of stimuli can trigger one, there’s nothing you can do. And no, you can’t decide you just won’t sleep. That doesn’t work, either.” _Believe me_. John recalls the first days back in London, sleepless nights and sleepless days until he passed out somewhere, only to wake in a sweat, gunfire ringing in his ears; the days after Sherlock’s death, where the image of Sherlock’s fall was a permanent film over his vision.

“This is hateful!” Sherlock growls, and in a blur of movement the laptop goes flying; it hits the floor with a loud crack. His eyes finally meet John’s, and John can see the toll of Sherlock’s struggle when his face is no longer hidden behind his screen: hollowed out eyes with bruise-coloured bags beneath them, oily unwashed hair, drawn, pale skin.

“Sherlock-”

“I can’t _function_ ,” Sherlock continues, and buries his fingers in his hair, tugging hard. Before John fully decides to move, he’s crossed over to the sofa and sat beside Sherlock, gently pulling Sherlock’s hands away, holding them between his own.

“Hey, hey,” he says softly. “You need to calm down, we don’t want to stress your ribs. Here, along with me: in….out. Good, again. In...out.” They continue until Sherlock establishes a consistent breathing pattern. When he does, he goes limp and rests his head on John’s shoulder.

John rubs his thumbs over Sherlock’s knuckles in encouragement. “Easy, now,” he murmurs; he doesn’t know what to say, what to do, but knows in the bottom of his gut that Sherlock needs this, him, now.

“I want to sleep,” Sherlock whispers.

“I know. I know.” One hand comes up to smooth over Sherlock’s hair. Shame wells up in his stomach, that his friend has been suffering so long and John hadn’t noticed, too buried in his own worries. He feels lost.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Yeah?” John’s throat is thick.

“Will you stay?”

“As long as you need,” John affirms.

A quiet exhalation betrays Sherlock’s relief. “Tell me a story.”

“About what?”

“Anything. You.”

John shifts them so that they’re stretched out on the sofa, Sherlock on top of him. “How’s your chest?”

“No pain, negligible discomfort.”

“Need some pain medication?”

“No.”

“Okay. Tell me if you do.”

“Fine.”

John’s fingers find Sherlock’s hair again and comb gently through the curls. “I grew up in a small house in Brighton. During the summer, Harry and I would go down to the beach and collect seashells, that sort of thing. There was a sandcastle contest, sometime in August each year. Harry and I always entered, even though our castle was nothing compared to the other entries.”

“You two were close,” Sherlock mumbles. His eyes are closed, nose squished into John’s chest. It’s the most relaxed John’s seen him in a long time.

“Yeah. I guess we were It was more difficult, later.” Too much between them, John’s thinks, starting with their father’s death and culminating with John half a world away (or so it seemed) while Harry was drowning in a bottle.

John blinks and pulls himself out of his head. Sherlock’s breathing has grown deep and slow, his eyelids fluttering slightly; sleeping, then. John smiles softly and gently runs a hand down Sherlock’s back. His own mind his slow with fatigue, but one thought echoes as John closes his eyes.

“No nightmares, tonight. Not for either of us.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/ con crit always welcome!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still working hard to make headway into this, especially since I've now received my Holmestice match! Thank god for random days off school.
> 
> I've just realized that most of my chapter summaries are dreadfully boring. Sorry about that.

Sherlock wakes with heavy limbs and the scent of John’s deodorant in his nose. They’re still on the sofa; Sherlock’s fingers have taken hold of John’s shirt and in return, warm arms are draped over Sherlock’s back in an embrace. It’s perfect. John’s chest rises beneath his own approximately every three seconds, his exhales gently ruffling Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock gladly counts the breaths, shifts so that he can watch John’s face and note the changes, the small frown line between his brows that’s not gone away. Sherlock runs his fingers down John’s side and wonders what the skin underneath would feel like. It’s a foolish exercise, but Sherlock _wants_ , and the leftover fuzz from the first good night of sleep he’s had in days is just enough to cloud his judgement, to stay and feel instead of getting up.

John’s breathing shifts; his eyelids flutter, and with a yawn his eyes open, connecting with Sherlock’s. He makes a sound low in his throat.

“Morning,” John mumbles, voice raspy. Sherlock feels the rumble of it in his chest and nods dumbly. John lifts his arms above his head and stretches, pulling his shirt tight over his chest. His shoulder pops, and John winces.

“‘m getting too old to sleep on couches,” he says with chagrin; guilt stabs Sherlock in the diaphragm and he sits up quickly.

“Yes, of course. I’ll just - that is--”

Fingers wrap around Sherlock’s wrist. “Hey,” John says. Sherlock averts his gaze.

“Sherlock, it’s fine. We both needed it, and it’s nothing...nothing to be ashamed of. Okay?”

Sherlock turns and takes in the earnesty on John’s face and nods. John smiles, and his fingers brush over Sherlock’s pulse before letting go. Sherlock stands.

“Shower?” John asks.

“Yes.”

“Let me know when you’re done. I want to have a look at your wound.”

Sherlock acknowledges the request, then closes himself up in the loo, where he strips off his clothes for the first time in two days. While the water warms, he steals a glance in the mirror, and sees the bags under his eyes have started to disappear. He turns around and steps into the shower. Water beats down on his head, steaming, and Sherlock sighs with relief. His eyes close, and he reaches for the soap blindly, running the bar over his skin and feeling the sweat wash away. When he’s finished his front, Sherlock turns down the heat slightly and starts on his back, gently gliding over the warped skin there. The scars are occasionally sensitive, devastatingly so, but today all Sherlock feels is the ghost of pressure.

His hair is tended to with equal care, shampoo and conditioner massaged into his curls and then washed out. When he’s finished, he takes a moment to relish being clean before stepping out of the shower.

He dries off briskly, then slips on a pair of pants and pajama bottoms before cracking open the bathroom door and calling John’s name.

John enters calmly, and flicks on the brighter light. “It’ll be easier if you stand. Is that okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock replies, and holds himself tall in preparation. John washes his hands, then begins. At the first touch of his fingers, Sherlock’s stomach tenses.

John looks up at him. “Relax, Sherlock.”

Sherlock bites back a retort and exhales heavily, closing his eyes. John continues, running his hands over Sherlock’s ribs and pressing lightly.

“Any trouble breathing?”

Sherlock shakes his head. John moves his focus to the gunshot wound, feeling around the edges of Sherlock’s forming scar.

“What about this? Hurt?”

Sherlock clears his throat. “Sometimes,” he answers, voice slightly hoarse. “Lifting my arms too high, too much pressure. Much better than before, though. Right now it’s only sensitive from the heat.”

John makes a humming noise and Sherlock imagines that his hands cup Sherlock’s waist briefly before pulling away. Warmth begins to pool low in Sherlock’s gut.

“It’s probably a good idea to stay on your antibiotics for the full month they were prescribed, but I think we can cut down on your pain medicine, like the doctor suggested.”

“Hmm.”

Sherlock hears the rattle of pill bottles and moments later, John presses two into his hand.

“Take one of each for now, I’ll cook up something to chase them down with,” he suggests, and Sherlock opens his eyes. John is looking up at him, an odd expression on his face. Sherlock makes to step away, but is stopped by John’s hand, still on his own.

“John?”

John shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry. I just…” he swallows hard. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Sherlock blinks and feels his heart kick in his chest, heat swelling under his skin. “I…” _am glad you’re here, too._

The pause sits heavy with potential, then passes before Sherlock can make his mouth finish the words. John smiles, briefly, then leaves with a muttered reminder about the pills.

Desire still trickles through Sherlock’s blood.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/ con crit always welcome!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continues directly from last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my longer updates to make up for the fact that I might not be able to work on this much once I get started on my Holmestice fic.

Sherlock ignores the fact that his cock is half-hard in his pants and changes into trousers and a shirt while John bangs around in the kitchen. John cooks a simple breakfast that Sherlock deletes the memory of eating, then leaves for work. At eleven o’clock, John’s still at work ( _dull_ ) and Sherlock itches to be doing something - anything - other than sitting in Mrs Hudson’s living room, rotting his brain with morning talk shows. The doorbell rings, and Mrs Hudson bustles off to answer it; Sherlock filches another scone from the plate on the coffee table.

“Sherlock, it’s your detective inspector,” Mrs Hudson calls.

Lestrade pokes his head in the doorway, holding up a file. “It’s just a cold case, but I figured you could use some work.”

Lestrade looks under-rested, as usual, but a second glance gives Sherlock pause. There are small hairs clinging to the ankles of Lestrade’s trousers. He’s likely taken in that stray cat that’s been hanging around his neighborhood. More interesting, though, is the change in shampoo; trying to impress? Or spending enough time at someone else’s house to warrant showering there?

“Oi,” Lestrade says. “Deduce the case, not me.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but pulls himself off Mrs Hudson’s couch and walks past Lestrade. On the way upstairs, he finishes off the scone and brushes the crumbs from his fingers.

“Set it on the table,” he instructs Lestrade as he opens the door, “and tell me everything you know.”

* * *

 

“I was thinking soup for dinner tonight. Any objections?”

Sherlock opens his eyes and stares up at the cracks running across the sitting room ceiling, reorienting himself.

“Where’s Lestrade gone?”

“He left hours ago,” John says with amusement. “Texted me to let you know that he wants the case file back when you’ve figured it out.”

“Tell him he can come get it tomorrow, then,” Sherlock replies.

There’s the sound of John sitting in his chair, then: “You’ve solved it?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Of course. Pedestrian, really.”

“Still. You’re chuffed about it,” John points out. Pride wells up in Sherlock’s chest and he allows a smile to pull up his lips.

“Perhaps a little,” he concedes.

“Soup for dinner, then?”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Sherlock replies absently, and returns to thinking. As his eyes close, tall bookshelves replace the sitting room walls. Sherlock is sitting in an armchair, feet extended toward the hearth of the fireplace. Across from him, Irene is draped over her own chair, eyeing him with a small smirk.

“Back so soon?”

“I could hardly leave our conversation unfinished,” Sherlock counters, and picks up his cup of tea from the small table beside his chair.

Irene chuckles. “It must be serious, if you need my advice that badly.”

Sherlock scowls, but doesn’t deny her claim.

“Tell me what it feels like,” Irene says.

“I experience an increase in heartbeat, sweaty palms, dilated pupils. Prolonged contact often leads to the beginnings of an erection. Occasionally--”

“Sherlock,” Irene interrupts. “I asked how it _feels_.”

Sherlock works his jaw and breaks eye contact. Irene waits, not patient by any means, but ready to out-silence him.

“It feels….terrifying,” Sherlock says, finally. “And exhilarating, all at once. I want to bury myself under his ribs next to his heart and lungs and never come out. It’s hateful, in its own way.”

“But hateful isn't all it is, is it?” Irene asks softly.

“No.”

“There is, of course, Mary to consider. And the child.”

Sherlock grimaces. “Yes. She is...a fluctuating variable, except when it comes to her family. She is fiercely protective; her shooting me proved that. If she continues to be threatened, I don’t know how she will react.” Sherlock grimaces and takes a sip of tea, then sets down the cup with enough force to make it rattle. “And I should _care_ about that, risking John’s life,” he spits, raising his voice. “Putting my sentiment before his safety. Shouldn’t I?”

Irene laughs. “Oh, Sherlock. Am I really the best person to ask about healthy relationships?”  
Her question breaks the tension, and Sherlock forces himself to take deep breaths and speak calmly. “Possibly not.”

“Exactly. And even if I were, I doubt you and John could ever judge yourselves by that standard.” Irene stands. “So remember that when I give you my opinion: get some sleep tonight.”

Sherlock watches her leave and contemplates the flames licking at the wood in the fireplace.  When the tea goes cold, he pulls himself back into the flat. He sits up, stretching. It’s early evening, and John is in his chair, reading the newspaper.

“Dinner’s ready, whenever you are,” John remarks, shuffling the pages.

Sherlock hums, and John must take it as assent, because after the sports section he stands and goes into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he comes out with two trays, a bowl of soup on each. John places the trays on the coffee table, then sits next to Sherlock on the sofa.

“Just plain chicken noodle, tonight,” John says as he turns on the telly, “but it should be good.”

Sherlock ladles a spoonful from his bowl and carefully brings it to his mouth. The broth is warm and slightly salty, the chicken and noodles thoroughly cooked but not falling apart. Sherlock swallows with an appreciative sigh, then starts in on the rest. John flicks through the channels and settles on a gameshow. Sherlock knows some of the answers, and each time he says one out loud John glances at him with a surprised but pleased look.

Sherlock finishes his soup, then leans back against the cushions; the sharp twist of ignored hunger in his gut has been replaced with warmth and something approaching contentment. John’s thigh has brushed up against his own and stayed; the rub of denim against Sherlock’s trousers when John shifts his position is comforting. Sherlock’s eyes droop a bit, and the telly screen goes blurry as they announce the winner. The game show's theme comes on, artificially cheery, and John turns it off after the credits end.

“I’m for bed,” he says with a yawn, and stands slowly from the couch. He takes Sherlock’s bowl and tray and stacks them on top of his own, then takes them back into the kitchen.

Sherlock blinks his eyes open and forces himself to stand and follow; he leans against the kitchen doorway and watches John put the trays in the cabinet and the dishes in the sink. When John turns and sees him, Sherlock’s heart picks up speed.

“What’s wrong?” John asks, concerned.

“I was wondering -- would you…” Sherlock takes a deep breath, hands clenched behind his back, and plunges in. “Would you join me. Tonight.”

There is a long silence and Sherlock fills it in his mind with half-formed brush offs and the echo of “I’m not gay”, readies himself for denial and anger. Because it’s different, his asking now; a calm, clear question in their kitchen, without the emotional danger of before. And John...well. Once is an anomaly, but twice is rather more difficult to explain away.

“Yes.”

Sherlock blinks. “What?”

“Yes,” John repeats. “Just let me get changed. I’ll be in in a few.” He leaves the kitchen, after that, and Sherlock half-stumbles through brushing his teeth and changing into a pair of pyjama bottoms and a thin t-shirt. He turns on the bedside lamp, then perches on the edge of the mattress, waiting.

John comes in a few minutes later and pulls back the covers opposite Sherlock, then slides into bed and arranges the blankets around him.  He looks soft and inviting in the dim light of the lamp; Sherlock finds himself staring, body twisted halfway around to absorb the way the pillow dents under John’s head and the lump of his feet under the covers.

“Come on, then,’ John says gently. Sherlock pulls himself away and gets in his own side, then reaches over to put out the light. The sudden darkness steals away his sight, but Sherlock can still hear John breathing, just a foot away. _In my bed_. Sherlock’s fingertips tingle with the urge to slide further across the bed and find John’s warmth, but the delicacy of the situation makes him hold back. The touch of broad fingers around his wrist, pulling him closer, is enough of a surprise to keep him quiet. His nose presses into John’s sternum, surrounding him in the mixed scent of Sherlock’s sheets and John’s detergent.

Sherlock closes his eyes and allows John to pull one of his arms over John’s waist to rest against John’s back. He memorises the curve of John’s spine, his eyes slipping closed. As he falls asleep he hardly notices the brief press of something soft and dry against his forehead.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/ con crit always welcome!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, a day later and that weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting writer's block on my Holmestice piece, so I pieced this chapter together instead. (Also I felt guilty about not updating this fic. But it was mostly the writer's block.)

The next night neither of them talk about it, but John follows Sherlock to bed just the same. Sherlock clings and John often wakes up with curls pressed into his nose. Still, John sleeps more soundly than he has in the past three years.

* * *

 

It’s Saturday. John cooks potatoes, mixed in a pan with an onion and pieces of sausage. His fingers feel over sensitive, tingly, and he pushes the memory of warm skin from his mind as he pulls plates down from the cabinet. Sherlock comes into the kitchen just as John takes a seat, now wearing a baggy t-shirt; he sits down across from John and begins eating. John focuses on his own fork instead of the delicate grip of Sherlock’s fingers around metal.

“I think I’m going ask for fewer hours at the practice,” John says after a time.

Sherlock looks at him, eyebrows raised. “You wanted to go back.”

John clears his throat and stabs a bite of potatoes. “Yeah, well.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Fine. Lestrade’s got a few cases he’s been asking me to look at, anyway.”

“You mean you’ve been bothering him. Sherlock, you’re still-”

“It’s just files, John,” Sherlock says, waving away John’s protest. “Simple brainwork, no running down dingy alleys.”

“Is he bringing the files here?”

“I’ll text him after breakfast,” Sherlock answers.

“I need to go the shops,” John says after a final bite, changing the subject. “Need anything?”

“No,” Sherlock says. John drops his plate into the sink.

“Tell Lestrade I said hello,” John instructs, and unthinkingly caresses the back of Sherlock’s neck as he leaves the kitchen. He brushes his teeth and washes his face, then hurries upstairs. In his room, he peels off his sleep-rumpled clothes and redresses in fresh layers, jumper over shirt over vest over pants, worn-in jeans, thick socks and sensible shoes. He shrugs on a jacket coming down the stairs, pauses on the landing long enough to call out to Sherlock.

“I’m off. Be back in an hour or so,” he says, then continues down the stairs and out onto the street. The air is cold and damp, but John forgoes a cab and walks the few blocks to Tesco’s.

The shop is mostly empty. John passes through the aisles with ease. Bread, tea, milk. A cheap bottle of red wine. Some meat and vegetables. He pauses by the pastries before giving in and picking out a shortbread cake and heading to the register. He waits in line, idly scanning the magazine covers as the person in front of him leaves. He smiles at the cashier, pays, and leaves with bags in hand.

It’s raining out, now, enough that John raises his hand to hail down a cab; his phone vibrates with a call as one pulls to the kerb, but it’s gone to voicemail by the time John gets in and sets down the bags.

“221B Baker Street,” he tells the driver, then queues up the message.

“John, it’s me, Mary. I...I called to let you know I’ve a doctor’s appointment the day after tomorrow. They’re supposed to do a sonogram. It’s the same woman we saw back in June - Doctor Sako. And, well. That’s it, really. My appointment’s at two thirty. Love you.”

John sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as the voicemail ends. The appointment isn’t a surprise; Mary’s about five months along now, and it’s important to ensure everything’s been going well. John calls up his last memory of Mary, barely starting to show, and tries to imagine her now, swollen with life. _Their_ life, that they made together. The image won’t come, and John’s stomach twists uncomfortably with the knowledge of his absence. The flash drive sits in his bedside drawer, held and examined but never opened. Mary’s texts are read, but never replied to.

Cowardice. It’s a word John’s never associated with himself, and it lands heavy on his shoulders.

The cab pulls to a stop and the driver gruffly announces their destination. John blinks, then pays the man before getting out and climbing the steps to 221. He fumbles with the bags, unlocks the door, then walks up to the flat, feeling far more weary than the short trip warranted.

Sherlock’s at the kitchen table, head bent over his microscope and papers spread out around him. John walks past him and fills the kettle with water.

“Do you want tea?” John asks. Sherlock’s answering noise is somewhere between _yes, tea now_ and _leave me alone_. John pulls down another cup anyway and sets it down next to his own, then turns to put away the groceries. The fridge is still free of body parts, surprisingly. When the water’s boiled and the tea brewed, John puts Sherlock’s a healthy distance from his elbow and then sits at the table, blowing gently on the hot drink.

“How’s the case?”

“Only slightly challenging, unfortunately, and I suspect that’s due to the idiocy of the crime scene technicians rather than any intelligence on the perpetrator’s part. All that’s left is to confirm the theory, now. Lestrade says hello as well. He told me to say that you two need to have a pub night, sometime.”

“Yeah, that’d be good,” John agrees absently, staring down at his tea. Mary’s voice still slithers through his mind, finding fissures of guilt and reminding him of everything he’s shot to hell, these past months.

“You’ve had news from Mary,” Sherlock observes flatly, still staring down his microscope.

John holds back a sigh. “She’s got a sonogram appointment in a couple days.”

“Go.”

“I…” John stops, closes his mouth, then nods to himself. “I should. I will.” He can manage this. Can’t he?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/con crit always welcome! I hope that John's indecision about Mary is portrayed well. In some ways, it reflects the indecision I myself have about her, which is why I've not taken a strong stance one way or the other on her motivations/plans.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, the day of the appointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this chapter and likely the next are pretty rough (as in I've not edited them as much as I'd like). Still, hope you enjoy!

The day of Mary’s appointment, tension fills the space between Sherlock and John. Real or imagined, it’s enough for John to leave an hour early. He buys a coffee from Speedy’s, then walks through Westminster trying to calm his nerves before catching a cab to the doctor’s. He pays the fare, then stands outside Doctor Sako’s office and stares at the door. His left hand is shaking, just enough to give him the urge to cover the tremor with his other hand. Instead he curls his fingers into a fist by his side and counts the seconds between his breaths.

Ten steps. That’s all he needs to take, and then he’d take another five to get to the front desk and say, “I’m here for Mrs Watson,” and the receptionist would check the computer and say “right this way,” with a white smile. She’d lead him down a hall to a door, knock softly, then open it and wave him in. Mary would be on the examination table, shirt pulled up and clear jelly smeared over her stomach. She’d look up at him and smile, that wide smile that had first caught John’s attention. She’d take his hand, and the doctor would continue, letting them aww over the baby on the sonogram, and Mary would ask, “boy or girl?” and she’d still be smiling, happy, like nothing was wrong, like John hadn’t knelt over Sherlock’s dying body _twice_ now, like Mary Morstan was her real name all along and John could still trust her motives.

John’s breath is coming short and getting stuck in his lungs. His vision’s gone blurry around the edges, and sharp-toothed panic crawls up John’s throat, crushing. He sits down at the kerb, half falling, and bends his head until it’s level with his knees. Briefly, his head spins and he heaves.

Hands fumbling, he fishes his mobile out of his jacket pocket and sends Sherlock a text with the address of the office and the words _come_ _now_.

He closes his eyes and presses the heels of his palms against his eyelids and takes shallow breaths through his mouth until he hears the sound of tyres pulling up next to him. Sherlock gets out of the cab and, with gentle fingers on John’s shoulder, hauls him to standing and guides him into the back seat. Hollow-eyed, John gazes out the window as Sherlock tells the cabbie to take them back to Baker Street.

The clock on the cab’s dashboard reads 2:40. Mary will be wondering where he is, by now, worrying if he’s coming at all. 2:41. 2:45. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and John can just imagine the message. _John? Are you coming? The doctor says the baby’s healthy._

2:55. The cab pulls to a stop at the kerb in front of 221. John absently gets out, follows Sherlock inside and up to their flat. He stops in the doorway, looking around the sitting room.

“I’ll be upstairs,” he says quietly, and turns away, slowly taking the steps up to his room. He gets into bed, only taking off his shoes and jacket; he lies on top of the sheets, but pulls the blanket up to his chin.

_Failure_.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows directly after last chapter: Sherlock struggles to find the right course of action. Another nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, another rough chapter. Some good news: I have had an epiphany about the last scene I want to write for this fic. Some bad news: it may take me some time to figure out how to get to that last scene.

Sherlock stands by the window staring out at the street. His violin is perched on his shoulder, bow in hand, but after a minute he sets them down on the table. John’s upstairs, hurting, and Sherlock’s downstairs, unsure of when everything went so pear-shaped.

His phone vibrates on the table. Reluctantly, Sherlock unlocks it and reads the message. It’s from Mary, which means John hasn’t replied to any of the texts he got in the cab.

_Are you two on a case?_

Sherlock frowns and stares at the words, trying to come up with a suitable answer.

 _John is feeling under the weather_ , he finally sends, then turns off his phone and hides it under the skull. He sits in his chair, then turns on the telly and spends the rest of the afternoon staring numbly at soap operas and comedy reruns. When the brightness of the screen starts to hurt his eyes, Sherlock turns it off and sits in the dark, trying to untangle the knot of pressure in his chest.

He’s never done this before. For all that he loathes to admit his own shortcomings, Sherlock has never played the caretaker role, has never cared enough to worry when someone else was hurting. He’s diffused situations before, but always by drawing attention to himself (often at the expense of his health).

He rather suspects that bringing a bomb up to John’s room to disarm won’t do the trick this time.

_____

“John?”

Sherlock whirls around, hands extended into the dark. His eyes are wide open, but he can’t see anything. The back of his throat is dry and his lungs are aching, like he’s been running for miles but couldn’t stop.

“John?” he calls again. Nothing.

Sherlock tries to take a step; his legs crumple under him and he hits the ground, sprawled facedown. The blow is unexpected. All Sherlock knows is one moment, he’s struggling to get back up, and the next blinding pain is filling his body and he’s bleeding from a wound in his back. The blood is warm and sticky as it flows out of him. Sherlock gasps in surprise, fingers clawing at dirt.

“Dear, dear,” a smooth voice murmurs in his ear. “What a mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time, Sherlock.”

A hand covers his own, moist against his skin. “Look what you’ve done, Sherlock,” the voice scolds. “You’ve gone and dirtied your hands. Such lovely hands.”

Sherlock can barely keep his eyes open, but as light slowly fills the space he forces himself to watch as a figure is revealed, curled up on the ground a few steps away.

Dull, empty eyes. Slightly open mouth, a bit of blood running from the corner.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, horror making bile come up from his stomach. The voice laughs, lacing its fingers with Sherlock’s, covering him, smothering him, the taste of dirt fills his mouth and Sherlock is choking on it, staring into John’s dead eyes--

Sherlock wakes up in his chair, fingers digging into the armrests. His chest feels constricted and he can’t breathe, still stuck in the panic of his nightmare.

 _John_. Sherlock stands, stumbles upstairs in the dark and pushes John’s door open without a thought for propriety. John is in bed, but flinches awake when the door bangs against the wall.

“Sherlock?” he asks blearily.

A soft, relieved sound escapes Sherlock’s throat, and he comes to stand next to John.

“You’re okay,” he says dumbly.

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” John mumbles, voice raspy with sleep.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and releases it on a sigh. His hands are still shaking with fear, but the rest of him is drained of energy. He sits on the edge of John’s bed, slides his hand over to cup John’s knee, fingers pressing in to feel John’s heat underneath the blanket and through his jeans.

“Did you have another-” John begins, hesitantly.

Sherlock nods and John lets the question die. Sherlock’s eyes are scratchy and tears are pricking at the corners of his vision. He tries to blink them away, upset at the display of emotion.

“Hey,” John murmurs, sitting up enough to clasp John’s shoulder. “It’s okay, everyone’s all right.”

“I _know_ ,” Sherlock growls, swiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand. “This is ridiculous.”

John leans forward, and Sherlock is pulled into a hug. It’s not the best position; Sherlock’s nose is mashed into John’s shoulder and one of his hands is still on John’s knee, trapped between them. Still, Sherlock lets himself sink into the warmth and take in the scent of John’s washing powder.

“You’re all right,” John repeats. His lips just brush against the back of Sherlock’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One week later. John and Sherlock have a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing the end! I'm thinking one to two more chapters to tie this story off.

John wakes around nine and blinks blearily at the ceiling of Sherlock’s room. There are murmurs coming from the sitting room, just out of hearing range. John wonders if it’s a client, decides he should probably get up. He stretches, slides out of bed, and briefly checks his reflection in the wardrobe mirror before quietly opening Sherlock’s doors and stepping into the hallway. The voices grow more distinct, and John groans internally. He feels the beginnings of a flush heat his ears as he looks down at his pyjamas. He debates hiding away in the room again, but gets held back by the conversation.

“I hoped you’d let this go by now.”

“How could I?”

“Sherlock, do not go meddling in it any further. You’re liable to get burned.”

“What’s one more injury? And John, if you’re going to stand in the hall eavesdropping, at least try not to be obvious about it.”

John clears his throat self-consciously and steps into the sitting room. “Morning,” he says, then escapes into the kitchen to make some tea.

“Other...matters aside, there was something else I wished to discuss with you,” Mycroft continues.

“No.”

John sets out three cups and leans against the counter as the water boils.

“They haven’t seen you since you were in hospital, Sherlock. She’s getting impatient.”

“You hated it just as much as I did, so why are you being so insistent about it?’

There’s a long silence as John pours the water, then a small sound of triumph from Sherlock.

“She’s got something on you, doesn’t she?”

“Nonsense, Sherlock. Unlike you, I don’t need to be coerced into-”

Sherlock snorts. “What is it, then?”

“Don’t be childish, Sherlock.”

“Blackberry pie? Mulled wine? Gingerbread men?”

John blinks in confusion, but pops into the room before Mycroft can reply. “Anything in your tea?”

Mycroft turns to look at him with a blank smile.

“A touch of milk, thank you.”

John fixes the tea, then comes back and distributes the cups. Mycroft is sitting in his chair; John perches on the sofa and raises his cup to his lips.

“At least consider it,” Mycroft suggests.

“Consider what?” John asks before Sherlock can refuse again; curiosity burns bright in his stomach about what he overheard.

“Our parents want to have a family Christmas,” Mycroft says with distaste.

“That sounds lovely,” John replies diplomatically, remembering Mycroft’s words, years ago.

_You can imagine the Christmas dinners._

_Yeah. No. God, no._

“Mycroft knows it’s a waste of time to ask me. I’d only give it a second thought if you were going, and even then I think it’s a terrible idea,” Sherlock scoffs.

John sets his tea down in surprise. “I’d go, if you’d have me.”

“Mary would be welcome too, of course,” Mycroft interjects with put-on politeness. John stiffens.

“How is the lovely Mrs Watson nowadays?” Mycroft continues. “The two of you are patching things up, I presume?”

John takes a sip of his tea to avoid speaking, but Mycroft isn’t dissuaded.

“Tell me, John: have you looked through that flashdrive she gave you? Even plugged it into a computer?”

Sherlock stands and snatches Mycroft’s tea, slamming it onto the side table.

“Lovely as this visit has been, brother mine, I’m afraid John and I are rather busy right now,” he says, walking to the door. He pulls it open and waits, one eyebrow raised.

Mycroft slowly gets to his feet and gathers his umbrella. When he gets to where Sherlock is standing, he pauses. “You’ll let me know, about Christmas.”

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock snaps.

“I’ll arrange a car for Mrs Watson to make her own way there. Her address is still the same, I believe?”

Sherlock closes the door behind Mycroft with a loud thump.

John takes another sip of tea as Sherlock folds himself back into his chair; John keeps his eyes averted from the sharp gaze he can feel drifting over him.

“You haven’t looked at it.”

John’s gut twists. “No,” he answers, even though Sherlock’s words weren’t a question.

“Do you plan to?”

John thinks of Mary’s bright, cheerful smile as he twirled her around the dance floor; of the film over her eyes when Sherlock collapsed; of the blurry, small picture message he received last week of a sonogram, with the words _Wish you could have been here_ that came along with it.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“And Christmas?”

John grips his mug tighter. “I would be civil.”

Sherlock looks like he wants to say more, but John heads him off with a question.

“What about Magnussen? He’s still out there.”

Sherlock frowns and steeples his fingers under his chin. “Mycroft thinks I need to step aside.”

“And when have you ever done something Mycroft suggested?”

Sherlock smiles without humor. “Quite,” he says, and picks up his laptop in dismissal.

“What’s the plan, then?” John presses. He wants in, whatever it is. Sherlock’s eyes meet his own over the top of the computer.

“He will pay for what he’s done, John,” Sherlock says, tone calm, then goes back to staring at his screen.

John resigns himself to leaving it be (for now) and drinks his tea before it goes cold.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have arrived!

Weeks pass. Sherlock slowly gets stronger, and along with it, more eager for cases. Lestrade brings over stacks of cold case files and Sherlock powers through them in the afternoons. John splits his time between small shifts at the practice and helping Sherlock.

At night, they part ways to brush their teeth and get ready for bed, then come together in Sherlock’s room and slip under the sheets. John falls asleep to the sound of Sherlock’s breathing, wakes to the ghost of Sherlock’s breath against his skin.

Still, Mycroft’s visit hovers between them.

_______

Two days before, John broaches the subject over dinner.

“We’re going, then? To your parents’, I mean.”

“Yes. It’s best not to argue with Mummy, usually.”

John nods and lets the subject die, replaced by chatter about decomposition and the effects of fluctuating temperatures on flesh.

_______

They wake up early on Christmas morning, shuffling around the flat to get dressed and ready for Mycroft’s car, which pulls up to the kerb at seven. John brews a pot of coffee, yawning, and fills a travel mug just before they thud down the stairs. Mrs Hudson’s at her sister’s for the holiday; John locks up the flat behind them, then follows Sherlock and slips into the car.

Mycroft sits across from them, newspaper open.

“John, Sherlock. Happy Christmas,” he greets from behind the paper.

Sherlock snorts, but doesn’t argue, thank god. John makes a polite sound of acknowledgement. Mycroft raps gently on the partition, and the car starts up.

The roads out of London are fairly quiet. John spends most of the time looking out the window, admiring the scenery as the city buildings fade into suburbs and those into wide, open fields. He runs through his texts he sent Mary yesterday.

_Going to Mr and Mrs Holmes’ for Christmas. -JW_

_Was hoping you’d come too. -JW_

_I think Mycroft is sending a car for you, either way. -JW_

_Fine._

The hesitancy and indifference of the exchange had left a bitter taste on John’s tongue. Now, he pushes the thought from mind as his stomach begins to churn.

The car turns off the small highway they’ve been on and slowly makes its way down a two-lane road. It stops in front of a medium sized, cottage-like home. John gets out and stares.

Mycroft has a word with the driver, who drives away a few seconds after Mycroft shuts his door.

“Well. Best get this over with,” Mycroft says, and starts toward the front door.

Sherlock catches hold of John’s coat sleeve before he can follow Mycroft up the driveway.

“John, a moment.”

John turns. “Yeah?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again. His brows furrow.

“I never thought of something like this,” John says, to fill the silence. “I mean, I always thought you grew up in an estate, or something, not a place so--”

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock blurts, fingers clenched around John’s coat sleeve.

“Of course,” John answers, searching Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock takes a step closer, slides his hand down John’s wrist to twine their fingers together. John accepts the touch without thought. Sherlock’s brow is pinched and his gaze is serious.

“Mary is in there--” Sherlock begins.

“I know,” John interrupts, thinking of his carefully planned words. _Mary. It doesn’t matter what you did in the past...I can’t forgive what you did to Sherlock. It was selfish and cruel, and I--_

“And you need to forgive her,” Sherlock continues. “I have a copy of the flashdrive-- destroy it, if you get a chance during the conversation.”  
“Why?” John demands, thrown by Sherlock’s request.

Sherlock’s mouth twists. “I can’t tell you.”

John blinks. “What was on the flashdrive?”

Sherlock looks down. “I can’t.”

John scoffs, the sound of it sharp and unexpected in the quiet outside the Holmes’ house. “And why can’t you tell me?”  
Sherlock squeezes John’s hand. “Because there is a plan, and in order for that plan to work you need know as little as possible. Your forgiveness must be convincing.”

“Like before, then,” John says. “John Watson, left behind to play a part.”

“No,” Sherlock denies sharply, crowding closer and forcing John to tilt his head up. “Not left behind, not in the dark. Not this time. You must know that, John. I am going to do all I can to come back, at whatever cost.”

The open, pained expression on Sherlock’s face gives John pause; he holds Sherlock’s gaze.

“How long?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock answers. “Yet.”

John looks down at their clasped hands and takes a deep breath. Imagines walking inside and telling Mary he loves her. Imagines moving out of Baker Street (again), and not knowing where Sherlock is.

“After it’s over, will we…” _find each other. talk. do more than talk, maybe._

Sherlock nods. “Yes.”

“Okay,” he agrees, blowing out a breath with pursed lips. “I’ll help.”

A flicker of a smile passes over Sherlock’s face. John licks his lips, swallows down the sudden urge to follow that smile up and press his mouth against Sherlock’s, to bite Sherlock’s lower lip and ask permission into Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, to find out what Sherlock tastes like and listen to Sherlock’s rasping breath, to tangle his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and pull him closer, to feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body against his own, to finally know all these things about Sherlock Holmes and how they fit together.

Some indication of his desire must show on his face, because Sherlock’s grip on his hand tightens. To hold him back, or comfort him, John doesn’t know. But in this moment, rife with tension they can’t resolve (and god, John can’t wait for the day when they do), he echoes Sherlock’s strength.

“Shall we go in?” Sherlock asks after a moment.

_No_ , John wants to say.

He slips his hand from Sherlock’s and straightens his shoulders.

“Let’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End notes:  
> Yes, this is the end. As a viewer I still have very complex opinions on HLV and not a lot of definite theories surrounding s4, so I decided to leave this fic on a very open note. Please feel free to continue the story if you feel so inclined, but for me this story is finished as is. 
> 
> A very big thank you to all my irl friends who listened to me complain and exclaim over this fic over the past 3 and a half months, and to all of you who have read this story and/or left kudos and comments! Your support is very much appreciated and without you, this fic would likely not have made it this far.
> 
> See you soon!  
> -biswholocked


End file.
